Sunday, December 30, 2007

Yep. And it was mine. And Paul's.Wish we could have invited all 500of our friends/family, but, well, at this age,I think it's a good idea to only have asmany guests as ones age. Or as many as will fitin Cafe Juanita, whose staff, by the way,cooked up THE MOST SPECTACULAR FEAST.Menu will be posted later!(But I recall quail, saddle of lamb,salt cod fritti, pappardelle with goose sugo....And lots of Prosecco, a lovely Nebbiolo.)Both Paul and I managed to get throughthe "till death do us part" portion of the vowswithout voices cracking or tears descending the cheeks.Ahhh. Layers and layers of emotions there, our fourbeautiful young men beside us (Reilly, Nelson, PK, Bill), alive and shining with the grace of being well-loved.This afternoon P. and I shall walk to the Market(we're ensconced at the Fairmont Olympic)and shop for new cookware at Sur La Table.Joy by the heaping cupful!(No pinch, no smidgen. No carefully leveled.)Overflowing.

Saturday, December 29, 2007

I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea,Borne up by each wave as it passes,drawn down by each wave that recedes;I would empty my soul as the dreamsthat have gathered in me,I would beat with your heart as it beats,I would follow your soul as it leads.

Friday, December 28, 2007

Wedding practice. There is a reason for this.Oops! Wrong music! Whoa! Stand here! No! Here!Turn it up. Turn it down. Scoot over.Move the chairs back. Now line them up.Now arc them. Now separate them.Walk up the stairs. Now walk down the stairs.Do it again. Turn and face each other.Move the flowers. Get rid of the table.More candles. Candles. Don't make me laugh.Are we done now? Let's run through it again.What's for dinner?

Thursday, December 27, 2007

The threatened snow never arrived,and we canceled Spa Day even so.Spent the afternoon routing out the corners of my bedroom, making way,making way. Bags stuffed for give-aways,the useless tossed, the useful carefullyfolded, boxed. And then it was onto razor-cutting each wedding-favor edge,a John Lennon song, the text neatly reproducedin claret ink on chardonnay card stock, mountedthen on burgundy card stock. With a single maltfinish.

In My LifeThere are places I'll rememberAll my life though some have changedSome forever not for betterSome have gone and some remainAll these places have their momentsWith lovers and friends I still can recallSome are dead and some are livingIn my life I've loved them allBut of all these friends and loversThere is no one compares with youAnd these memories lose their meaningWhen I think of love as something newThough I know I'll never lose affectionFor people and things that went beforeI know I'll often stop and think about themIn my life I love you more--John Lennon

I love snow. But no snow, not today.People arriving (perhaps already arrived, actually)from Ottawa, Florida, Virginia, Texas.And I want to go to Olympus Spa today in the northwith friends from work. I want to lie on a heated floorand then get scrubbed with salt. I want to not think.I want to float, to steam.

The cats have taken over the Christmas tree water.What is it about these creatures? There is alwaysfresh water in two dishes in two different locationsin this house, but for some reason the water pooledat the base of a brightly lit decorated firis so much more delicious.

Monday, December 24, 2007

Shopping at Puget Consumer's Co-op this afternoon,I was dismayed at not seeing anyone I knew. Idawdled by the beer cooler, pondering the manyvarieties, wondering which hip new label wouldappeal to the twenty-somethings at my Christmas table.I knew that if I stood there long enough, someoneI knew would walk in, and sure enough, my friendsCarol and Tom appeared, as if on cue.We talked beer, Carol recommended a Pinor Noir,Tom rustled up the Cheese Man who recommendeda Manchego substitute, of which they were out.I next caught Tom sifting through brussel sprouts,picking out the tiniest. Wish someone in my houseliked brussel sprouts! He asked me if I'd ever heardhis brussel sprout story, and I said no. One mustsettle-in to listen to a Tom Porter story, so that I didamong the portobella's and watercress and Dungeness Farm carrots(among the gridlock of grocery carts and elbowingproduce seekers): Tom was hitchhiking in California,must've been twenty-five-thirty years ago, and sometimein the middle of the night, was suddenly let out of the car in which he was traveling, in the dark,and just possibly a bit hazy from a certaininhalation. He awoke the next morning in the middleof a field of brussel sprouts. No explanation:that's just where he was. And that was his breakfast:brussel sprouts, raw, fresh off the stalk.

We read A Child's Christmas in Walesby Dylan Thomas, out loud, Nelson and I.A Christmas Eve ritual in this house. Reillyplayed with the cats, gave them a holiday doseof catnip, so "Aunt Hannah sang like a big-bosomed thrush"was accompanied by the romping and gallopingof drugged kitties. Even the old cats played,lured out of their sedate naps by waggling ribbons.Tip pulled a wrapped piece of Christmas candyfrom behind the piano. God only knows how longit's been there! Not one of us had seen it before.All this after homemade pizza (coppacola, feta, kalamata)and an afternoon session of cookie making (candy-canecookies) and floor mopping. I insist on a clean floorfor Christmas. That way it gets cleanedat least once a year.

I started a coconut cake last night.Baked two layers, split them, filled themwith sour cream with some sugar swirled-inand a bunch of coconut. Poked holes so thefilling can macerate, settle. Tomorrow I'llwhip up a seven-minute icing and transformthe towering, oozing layers into a glimmeringsnowy confection, set on a vintage pink plate.O heavenly!

R. also requested a cherry pie, so we searchedfor the out-of-season iconic orbs at Safewayyesterday, found some battered fresh Bing-typesin the produce department. The sign said "Northwest Bings" but the bag said "Product of Chile."Hmm. Questionable. There were some generic cannedsour pie cherries -- also questionable. Other cannedversions appeared equally unpromising. We finally optedfor two bags of frozen cherries. I will not usethe fluorescent Red Dye #40 canned cherry pie fillingthat lights up the baking aisle! (With Real Cherry Flavor!)

A college friend of Paul'sfrom Austin sent him this poem today:Marble Cake

A widowed friend is marryingA woman who lost her husbandFour years agoI picture batter in a bowlChocolate marbling into whiteFlavors blending but retainingSeparate integrityAs the mixture stirs and rises to a cake of marvelous height Layered in the variegated texture of memoryAll-over iced with future sweetnessMelting on the tongue

Saturday, December 22, 2007

I am going to talk about my sonfor just a moment. Bear with me.R. was magnificent in the kitchenThursday evening. I had many reservationsabout hosting a sit-down dinner for 22 friendsthe week before Christmas, the week beforemy wedding. (I'm also in the middle of packing.)But he persisted. He rarely asks for anything.So I went forward on faith, and the payoff wasbeyond any dollar amount imaginable. A bit of history:this young man suffered debilitating seizures as a toddler; he missed entire developmental stages.We were reduced to experimental drug therapiesafter the traditional methods failed, and wereultimately successful. Then followed years oftherapy. At four, after two years of seizuresand intense medical intervention, he began to learnto talk again. At eight years of age, he graduallywithdrew from all medication, and has been seizure-freesince. But he emerged from all this as a uniqueindividual, with challenges the rest of us wouldtake for granted. The death of his father four yearsago was an unfathomable blow, and he's moved forwardin his life since then at a slow and jagged pace.The Culinary Arts Program at South Seattle CommunityCollege has been a marvelous home for him thesepast two years. He doesn't cook at my house often enoughfor my taste, so seeing him in his element crankingout dinner for 22 in my less-than-adequate kitchenwas like, oh, perhaps seeing one's son step forwardto receive a diploma from, say, Harvard. He was efficient,professional, poised, organized, wildly creative, humble (unlike his mother!) And he was smiling. It's been so longsince I've seen that. Planning and preparing the housefor this event and shopping for the ingredientswas something for which I had no time. There weremoments when I considered calling the whole thing off.I was sick for the four days prior and nearly reducedto tears more than once. But he kept assuring methat we could do this, and I trusted him, and whattranspired was perhaps the best evening of my life:three long tables stretched the length of my living room,dozens of candles down the center, cedar greens andholly branches and vases of red tulips. The only lightfrom the tree and the candles. Twenty-one of the best friends(mostly neighbors, one fiance, two sons) imaginable.R. received a standing ovation. I stand upand applaud my handsome and magnificent son.

Maria Muldaur's touring RV is parked outside my house.She rolled into town yesterday afternoon to do two shows at the Highway Ninety-Nine Club. When in Seattle (and I've always been out of town on previousvisits) she stays with my neighbor Candy, across the street.The band members are bunking at another neighbor's house.Now, Candy's house is slightly larger than a doll house,and this massive bus/RV dwarfs it. I've yet to meet her, but tonight Paul and I are going to her show.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Running on fumes. Need to refuel.Very little sleep. Took the elevatorsin the King County Administration Building today and one of the floors doesn't have a numberbut it does have a letter. "T". Why?And in Nordstrom downtown, the women's clothing floorsare numbered 1, 2, and 3; but the men's floor is just "M".In some department stores in France, the basement levelis marked "-1". Now that makes sense.(Paul and I got our marriage license application!)(Then we walked down to Cafe Paloma on Yeslerfor a late lunch, the restaurant quiet and subdued.We were both a bit slow and dumb by that point,no need for talk, just calm and secure in each otherspresence. The Mediterranean flavors served as a balmto the frantic pace of these past few days -- fetaand tomatoes and hummous and olives. Lemon vinaigrette.)

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Crazy prep for the dinner party today. Costco.Trader Joe's. Scrub scrub scrub. Tested the pomegranatemartini. Needs something sweet. (And it's not reallya martini and I really loathe this current fashionto call anything and everything a martiniif it's served in a martini glass.) The boysare down the street picking up tables. Julie polishedsilver for me: thank-you Julie! The ice cream baseis cooling in the fridge. Reilly is starting the forcemeatstuffing for the pork loin any minute. (Adding pears,fresh rosemary and shallots.) I need a double refrigerator.It's been packed and repacked several times today.Linda brought over an alstromeria bouquet. Platesare stacked. The wicks on the candles are standingat attention. Pot roast for today's dinner nearly burnedfrom inattention. Going to my writing group tonight,our second annual White Elephant Gift Exchange.My contribution is a record album:Anita Bryant, The Miracle of Christmas.Here's a tidbit from the album notes: "Anita Bryant singsthese familiar songs of the Christmas season, and shesings them the way you like to hear them."And I know you are all jealous.I just bet you all wish you could haveyour very own Anita Bryant album.

I had a date last night with fivevery handsome and gracious men.It began at ACT where we saw A Christmas Carol,(the ghost of Marley lept out of the bedthis year -- explosions of surprised laughter![I should say it surprised the Dickens out of us]),then dinner at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse.(I just typed -- and then corrected -- Ruth's Christ Steakhouse. What would a Christ Steakhousebe like, I wonder?!) After last night's mealI really shouldn't eat for several days....

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

I hunkered down this afternoon at Uwajimayaat the Vietnamese lunch counter over a bowlof steaming pho, fragrant with fresh ginger, basil,jalapeno. There are half a dozen stools wedged-indown a little corridor. It's cozy, anonymous, private.The perfect antidote to rain and shopping panic.

Monday, December 17, 2007

So. I was at a family gathering yesterdayexpressing my anxieties about leaving the familyhome, moving out and leaving my (grown)(in college)sons at home, an upside-down sense of abandonment,which I intellectually know is silly. (Actually, I cannot waitto abandon the mountains of laundry they have a tendencyto leave everywhere.) My youngest sonvolunteered that the two of them are delightedin the upcoming arrangement, and he actually said,"Phew. Now we won't have to do dishes all the time."Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha !!!!!This all reminds me of when R. was an infant, and Ihad to go back to work. I'd heard of the phrase"separation anxiety," and seeing that this was in theolden days of the last century, pre-internet, I did my bestto research how one dealt with it. I was very surprisedto find out that all the literature centered on how to preparethe infant for the separation -- not the mother! I was not at all concerned about R., as he was going to becared for by his father, at home. I was concerned about me!I felt as if I was the only mom on the planetwho hated leaving her baby every day. Baby and Dadmanaged beautifully. I was jealous. Sigh.Time to grow up. Time for everyone to grow up.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

I love this image. These were most likely the u-cut version. Impossible. Difficult.Predecessor to the punch-out variety. Loved the little tabs for holding onthe various outfits. You boys out therehave no idea what you have missed!

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Spent four hours today trying out fancy hairand fancy makeup (didn't even recognize myself)at a salon in Kirkland. Pampering.Came out to a cold and windy afternoonon Lake Washington, the hairpins holding fasteach carefully coifed fancy wisp.I am ready to be Bride. In fact, I went to a party on Yarrow Pointdisguised as a bride. This was not a fancyparty, per se. Fancy house, fancy pomegranatemartini's, not fancy people, though. Down to earth,pleasant people. As one guest has been quotedas saying, "Face it -- we're all white trash."(Well, maybe in a prior life. Or last week.)Lots of people in jeans and a scruff of a beardand wool sweaters: tres Northwest/Seattle.And then there was me: somewhere between Marge Simpson and the Queen Mum.With my Big Beautiful Hair. I felt perhapsjust a wee bit conspicuous with my pink Coco Chanel lips.My bronzed jaw. Rouged and plucked.

The pharmacy clerk at Safeway. Again.(Wait: his name is Sang. Not Sing,not Sung. Sang. And I didn't question himon this! I didn't say, shouldn't your name tagsay Song?) He said that the bottle had an odd flange, and wondered if it would bother me. He said, "Some senior citizenshave a hard time with it." I wondered forperhaps a second about what he was saying,then it dawned on me: he thought we was beingconsiderate of me, thought I was a senior citizen!(No offense, Senior Citizens.) I looked straightat him and nearly shouted: "I AM NOT A SENIOR CITIZEN!"He appeared to be confused for a second or two,then quickly backpedaled, apologetic, obsequious.He really does seem to be a sweet young man,though I can't even begin to imagine what he'll say next.

Friday, December 14, 2007

Working well under pressure, althoughhours and hours of sleep are required.Wedding two weeks away: finally orderedflowers today, over the phone. I highlyrecommend Ballard Blossom. Professional,helpful, efficient. Most of all: reliable.Dark red roses, pale pink roses. No blushingwhite. (No blushing whatsoever. Too late for that.)Christmas tree is in the stand, albeit crooked.No decorations yet. No lights. House is stillin complete disarray but (I'm trusting) thatwill all change in the next six days priorto the giant dinner party. I really coulduse the services of a housekeeper. A live-inhousekeeper. (Dream on.) Last day of work todaythen several weeks off.....ahhhhhh.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Melinda and I went to Nordstrom todayto buy bathing suits. Steeled ourselves.The best-selling item for the post-teen, post-size-zero,post-bikini mature women (when did I get to be mature, anyway?) is called the Miracle Suit. Huh. The only miracle that I witnessed was when I actually managed to squeeze my torso into one of those elastic compression devices. The problem with frontal steel-belting is that excess body massis forced out the back of the garment.Kind of like sausage bursting from its casing.Not at all pretty! Whilst undergoingthis self-imposed torture in the dressing room,Melinda yelled out to me: "Do you think theyhave any burka bathing suits?!"We each did manage to leave with a new swimming costume.M. opted not to get the red suit. I opted for a matchingblack skirt/cover-up. (Although what exactly it's supposedto be covering up I can't for the life of me figure out.Fully costumed, there is still altogether way too muchof me without any covering whatsoever.) Sigh. O youth forever lost.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

After reading Rebecca's accounting of the salmonreturning to spawn in a local creek, this poemby David Wagoner has been afloat in my brainall week:

THE POETS AGREE TO BE QUIET BY THE SWAMP

They hold their hands over their mouthsAnd stare at the stretch of water.What can be said has been said before:Strokes of light like herons' legs in the cattails,Mud underneath, frogs lying even deeper.Therefore, the poets may keep quiet.But the corners of their mouths grin past their hands.They stick their elbows out into the evening,Stoop, and begin the ancient croaking

This is hard to explain, but I'll try:In my bedroom, which faces east, thereis a bank of windows through whichthe sunrise shines every morning.Just now, while lying in bed, I sawin another window, a side window, a perfect squareof pink and yellow light -- perhaps two by two feet.Its lines were not gauzy; all was perfectly delineated.It appeared to be hovering. Fascinated, and not entirelysure what it was, I arose, and, of course, thisreflection shifted when I shifted, and disappeared.When I got back in bed and positioned myselfat the same angle as before, there it was again,but the light had intensified -- now fuschia,now gold. Ephemeral window, an entrance (an exit?)to another life? And of course, as I write this,it has entirely disappeared along with the rising sun,behind the ever-present winter clouds.O golden moment!

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

I have absolutely no time for this blogthese next few weeks but I doubt that willkeep me away from this keyboard.....The girl who bagged my groceries at Safeway todaywas named "Bionica." What if her last name is "Mann?"Not good. The last time I picked up an RXfrom the same store, the pharmacy clerkasked for my last name, which I told him.Then he asked my first name (ALWAYS difficult),as it's Therese (and I can't seem to do accents herebut there are two of them, on the first andsecond "e's.") Just like the saint from France.Bona fide French name. Correctly pronounced,it sounds something like this: tay-rez. Give ortake a gutteral "r." So, after I told himmy name, he found my RX, and said, "OHHHHH,you mean Teresa! I just groaned. So sick and tiredof mispronunciation. Thus the pruning to the singleletter T. And what nerve from that clerk!What did he expect me to say? "Oh, yeah, that's it!I always mispronounce my own name! Thanksfor correcting me!"Parents-to-be: pay attention!Give that kid a relatively easy name!

Here are some mispronunciations (and misspellings)of my name that I've endured these past fifty years:TheashThreaseTerseTreeceTraceTrishTeraceTerraceTerez (actually not so bad)...and my current favorite, my name as seenon the Q-West (I will not say "quest!") bill : Threrse.Please, call me T.

Attempting to carve out a spacein my living room for a tree. Of the evergreenvariety. I miss the $5 Chubby & Tubby trees.I saw an ad in the paper last week advertisingC & T trees at a lot somewhere out north -- Shoreline,I believe. But without the old variety storewith its merchandise stacked to the ceiling, it's just not the same thing. Upon purchaseof a tree, every customer was given a key,where one could attempt to unlock the Treasure Boxin the store. One year Nelson's key opened it!He received a $10 gift certificate, which he promptlyspent on a green fleece hat with a long tailand a pom-pom. Our cat Tip went crazy overthe pom, and we had to make sure we put the hathigh out of his reach or he'd spend hourschewing on it. Chubby & Tubby trees were the old-fashionedDoug firs, untrimmed, spare, often flattened fromlying stacked one against the other. They needed fluffing.Tree-shopping there was a source of great amusement.And you couldn't beat the price, even when theywent up to a whopping $7.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Saturday, December 8, 2007

I got up sometime during the nightto use the bathroom, didn't turn onany lights, and my pajamaswere sparking with static electricity!Every time I moved I looked like ahuman sparkler. This is an advantageto getting over ones fear of the dark.

Friday, December 7, 2007

My friend Genevieve told me today that every Christmas season she, her husbandand their son build a gingerbread house.Actually, she said it's more a gingerbread sculpture,with turrets and drawbridges and spikes and porchesand and and. They work on it for several weeks, addinglayer upon layer of nasty neon-colored candy (which wewhole-heartedly agreed is NOT food), adding roomsand roofs and entirely new wings. Until, by January 1st,they tire of it completely, haul it out to the drivewayand set it on fire with blow torches. She said that a lotof the flaming candy smells really good, but some of itsmells really bad, and it sparks and flares with the mostamazing colors. Cool. My kind of gingerbread.

Tell me I'm crazy. I'm planning a sit-down dinnerfor 22, five days before Christmas, for my neighborswho are practically family. In my not-so-big house.This involves moving furniture out of the living/dining roomand setting up tables the length of it.We'll be touching elbows (and most likely shoulders,thighs, forearms), the lights will be dimmedto hide the dust and the carpet which needsto be replaced. My son the culinary whiz is confident(or delusional?) that we can pull this off.Why am I doing this? Because I love to entertain.I love to cook. When I was twelve, I tried unsuccessfullyto talk my mother into turning our house into arestaurant. (In the Renton suburbs, no less!)I made out a floor plan, a menu. I priced all myingredients based on the weekly Safeway ad.(I didn't know about wholesale at age twelve.)I was shocked that she didn't agree to do it.Thought it was the perfect plan. My dear mother.I mean, who wouldn't want strangers roamingthrough ones house, sipping coffee in the living room,forking sausages in the bedroom? (No apologies for thatlast image.) So....this fantasy resurfaces.And it's crazy right now because I'm getting readyto move, getting ready for a wedding, and it's Christmas.The more stress the better! No wonder I wake up at 4am every day.....

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Rustling through papers, sorting and tossing.Found an envelope containing ten slides:five of Mark as a toddler, five of Reillyat roughly the same age. Who put these in thisenvelope? Mark? Me? And when? Why? This was in thebottom of a drawer long abandoned, old bank statementsand gas company bills. I abandoned many thingsfour years ago. Just closed up boxes and drawers,moved the good stuff into my new living space upstairsand left everything else behind. Bye bye.But back to the slides: held up to the light,it was difficult to tell Reilly from his fatherin such a tiny square space. The same curls.The same inverted half-moon eyes. The same cheeriness.I also found a bunch of photos someone tookthe night after Mark died, at a neighborhood wake,and everyone is smiling. It looks like a birthday party.(No: a Deathday Party.) Can someone tell me whateveryone was so damned happy about????

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Yoga. Early morning.At the close of each practice, we lieon our backs, eyes closed, feet slightly apartand arms extended out from the body, palms upward.Savasana. Ten minutes, after a fairly intense workoutof stretches and prolonged poses. Timefor the body to process all that it has just done,time to free the mind of thoughts. I've beenpracticing yoga for nearly two years, and onceduring savasana I had the sensation of levitating,my body raising about twelve inches, then rotating,floating, all very slow and dream-like. Today I was given the gift of another other-world experience.I was lying on my back, a mini lavender-scented pillow over my eyes. There was a window open, and the cloudsparted for a few minutes. (This after three days of wild weather:snow followed by monsoon-like rains.) I could sense sunlightilluminating the room. The wind kicked up, and a chimetinkled outside, delicately audible. As the wind rustled the curtains, crinkled the edges of magazines,filling the room with an almost balmy glow,I was aware of spirits entering on the breeze, flowingaround the three of us supine on our mats,bright benevolent swirls of blues, greens, reds, yellows.They persisted for just a few moments -- until the furnace clicked on, forcing hot, packaged airinto the space, driving our visitors back out the windows.The chimes became silent, the sun disappeared.As if there was no place for these -- what? Ghosts?Angels? -- in our conscious world. Our intentional actof operating a furnace, taking control of our living space,sent them back out into the wide wild universe.We who are fully alive, filled with breath.The temperature in the room dropped just enoughto warrant closing the window. It is, after all, December.But my hope is that they come again, uninvited,when the scent of lavender fills the winter air.And may there always be an open window.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Nearly eight o'clock, and it's barelylight outside. Over two inches of rain have fallensince midnight. What good reason could anyone havefor abandoning ones bed on a morning like this?(Okay. I admit that some of you have jobswhere you are required to clock in prior to 1pm.)I want to know where Jeeves is, with my coffee.And croissants. And butter.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

I had intended yesterday's blog entry,December 1st, to be a list of all the flowersstill in bloom in my garden. (A random blossomhere and there, hangers-on.) But no! Bossy snow had to pushher way in, cloaking all, shouting "Look at me!"Snow is a Prima Donna. A Princess.

So anyway, here's the list, humble and modest:--roses--lavatera--cosmos--nasturtium

Just as Paul and I parked this afternoonon Stewart Street in the Market, snow began to fall, hesitantly at first, as if trying itself out for the first time. We bundled ourselves up the hillto First Avenue and squeezed into the entryway of Le Pichet (tiny French bistro) where every table was occupied. Alas!There were two booths to be squeezed intoagainst the wall, and as soon as we sat down, we noticed that the snow, now apparently boldly confident,was descending in puffy clumps. A murmur rippledfrom table to table, everyone turned his or her headto the front windows, and a group "Ah!" sounded.One of the waiters bounded from behind the barto the sidewalk, yelping and cheering and flinginghis arms to the heavens, performing a spontaneoussnow-dance. We each ordered Soupe A l'Oignon Gratinee,which arrived steaming from the broiler,a gruyere-rich croute afloat in the rich, deeply-brown beef stock,onions perfectly soft and sweet, a hint of Cognac in the finish.No wine, no coffee, no dessert. No need!A constantly replenished basket of sliced baguetteand a generous hunk of butter, tall glasses of water,and soup. And snow.Perfect.

"What is the meaning of life? That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark. . . . "—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse"Like other poets, I am often asked if I have a spiritual practice. Yes, writing is my spiritual practice."— Alicia Ostriker

"The trick, Gloria thought as she experienced near-whiplash at the revelation, was to keep the level of believing in magic constant."—Marylinn Kelly

"Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me."—Sigmund Freud

"...and following the wrong god home we may miss our star."—William Stafford

"I am in love with the world.""—Maurice Sendak

“I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world.” —Rainier Maria Rilke"Writing means revealing oneself to excess."--Franz Kafka"There isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails. " --Raymond Carver"Someone I loved once gave mea box full of darkness.It took me years to understandthat this, too, was a gift. "--Mary Oliver"In the middle of the journey of our lifeI found myself in a dark wood,For I had lost the right path.And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars." --Dante Alighieri